Be near me when my light is low
by The Valiant Child
Summary: AU: Standing on a stool in Madam Malkin's he almost falls off at the sudden onslaught of bright, bright colours exploding before him (and behind him a skinny boy in clothes that are two sizes too big for him, swoons at the reds, blues, yellows and greens he's never seen before).


I wrote this to cheer a friend up. This is based on a post on tumblr about au where your world is black and white until you meet your soulmate.

* * *

**Be near me when my light is low**

-:-

_When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick_

_And tingle; and the heart is sick,_

_And all the wheels of Being slow._

— _**In Memoriam, Tennyson**_

* * *

He's used to them now. The soft blue of the skies, the warmth of the yellow sun (like a smile or his mother's hugs), the flashes of silver, and the glitter of gold. The anger in the crimsons, the crackle of the colour purple.

There are _so _many. Pink, maroon, orange, teal, brown, grey, beige...and green, sitting coolly on his robes and hiding behind _his_ glasses.

Some days, Draco can hardly remember what it was like without all the shimmering hues (that laugh and take another shade at the mere bend of light) of his world. He shudders to imagine having to go back to the black, white and dull greys.

There was a time, days and months and years ago, back in the first few weeks after that day in Madam Malkin's, standing on a stool and almost falling off at the sudden onslaught of bright, _bright_ colours exploding before him (and behind him a skinny boy in clothes that are two sizes too big for him, swooning at the reds, blues, yellows and greens he had never seen before), when, after having his gracious offer of friendship thrown back at his face, for weeks, _weeks_ he had detested the distracting shimmer and dance of the colours.

He didn't understand why Harry—

why Potter would prefer a _Weasley _and a _mudblood's _company over his, why even that pathetic, simpering Longbottom was held with better regard, why every time Potter turned his eyes on him, they held only blind contempt. He didn't understand so he reacted the only way he knew how to. He teased, and taunted, and often, so often, Potter would shove back, until some days, they would be screaming, and biting, and punching, and clawing at each other.

And all he ever wanted was to be _friends._

Now...well, now he wishes they could just stop hating each other.

-:-

Gryffindor wins the house cup again and everyone is cheering, save the majority of the Slytherin table. Draco sits in the far end and lets the cacophony fade into a soft muffle as he stares dreamily at the suddenly dizzying swirl of colours, that practically _sing_, dipped to their very roots in the laughter of that one person in the hall whose face is a sharp contrast against the blur of all the hundreds of others.

For a second, just one short, yet infinite second, they hold each other's gaze, and for once, Harry...for once _Potter_ isn't glaring in anger, or disgust, or hate. Draco almost smiles. The colours stop their erratic dance and the air—for that single second—stands still.

And then someone _is_ glaring at him—an orange blur at Potter's right.

_(Weasley knows)_

The sounds come crashing back, clangs of cutlery and whoops of joy, and chatters of excitement. The dreamy haze dissolves. Draco sneers and makes a rude gesture. Potter turns away.

-:-

His world has gone grey twice before. The first time towards the end of their first year, and then again towards their seconds year. For a slow, burning second, the green and silver of his robes had shifted to greys, and even deeper shades of grey and black. He would have screamed had that second not passed.

Then, in their fourth year, during the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, it happens again. This time for an entire minute. Sixty seconds. _Tick, tock, tick, tock_...the sky isn't blue any more. The hedges aren't green. The loud, cheering crowd surrounding him are colourless.

_Tick, tock, tick_...

There's a zap, a flash, bright lights, and then bright colours.

And Harry is crying.

(cheers turn into screams of horror)

But so is Draco.

-:-

In the year that follows, the colours are barely there. They're all washed out and faded, almost looking like greys again in a certain light.

_(When Harry is attacked by a Dementor before the school year starts, Draco blacks out and almost falls down a flight of stairs.)_

It grates on him. Even when there are small bursts of colour, here and there, for an hour or two, sometimes even a day, sometimes a week, it grates on him that Harry is sourly unhappy for the majority of the time. It grates on him that when Potter _is_ happy, he's happy because of Weasley or Granger or some other insignificant filth Potter sees fit to surround himself around.

He almost wishes he was insignificant enough too.

Almost.

_almost_

He settles for helping Professor Umbridge torment her students.

Late, one night, after they've found "Dumbledore's Army," he steals one of the Professor's quills and fills an entire parchment with two words, over and over.

He makes sure the sleeves of his robe cover his left hand for weeks to come. The letters are etched red, but with his colours faded so thin, they seem maroon instead, and sometimes pink. When the skin has healed, the scar is stark white.

Yet the words stay there, still legible.

_I'm sorry._

-:-

He's afraid. _All the time_.

He doesn't want to be a Death Eater, he doesn't want to kill Professor Dumbledore, he doesn't want to kill _anyone_.

For all the things he's said and done in the past, he never wanted this. He never wanted to be this person. And now, it's far too late.

He scared for his mother, his father. He's scared for whatever little friends he has. He's scared for himself. He's scared for the green-eyed boy who hates him. He's scared of all the things the Dark Lord will do if he ever finds out about the colours Draco sees and who put them there.

He knows he looks haunted, inside and out. He knows that Potter suspects him. There are moments he prays that he might get caught.

The scar at the back of his hand itches.

He cries himself to sleep on most days.

On others, he doesn't sleep at all.

-:-

Then one day, he _is_ caught.

He's kicking the Vanishing Cabinet because it won't work. For all spells, and charms, and hexes, for all the hours, and hours and oh, so many hours spent trying to repair it, it still _won't work._

He lays his feverish forehead against the cool wood and tries to breathe. The apple in his hand (the one he's desperately trying to send to the other cabinet all the way in Borgin and Burkes) flickers from light green to grey to green again. Spots of black dance along the edge of his vision.

He doesn't see the figure creeping behind him until Ha—

until Potter has disarmed him. The tip of his wand press sharply against Draco's throat. The black spots are bigger. Draco laughs. It's a weak, throaty chuckle, almost like a faint wheezing, really.

He doesn't care how Potter can possibly be here (Crabbe and Goyle are supposed to keep prying people _away_). In this moment, he's almost relieved.

-:-

Potter refuses to let him go without answers and Draco is too week and too tired to attempt to run. He sits on the dusty floor with his back against the Vanishing Cabinet while Potter paces in front of him with his wand pointed at Draco's face, asking all sorts of questions he can't answer.

The colours are now so dull, so muted, it gives him a headache. Back in the first days, the colours had hurt his eyes. Now their lack of does.

He lets Harry's voice (however angry) lull him into a strange sense of security he hasn't felt for a long, long time. He knows that he should reach for his wand (lying a seemingly awful distance away), he should somehow disarm Harry, he should run, he should tell Snape. He should fix the Vanishing Cabinet, he should be a good Death Eater, he should kill Dumbledore, he should...

The black spots merge into one big spot that swallows everything up (everything but the sound of Harry's voice) and when Draco blinks, everything is black and white like the first eleven years of his life, like that long, _long_ second in their first year, like that even longer second in their second year, like that eternity (that was but a minute) in their fourth year.

Harry is yelling, Draco hardly knows what. He can't hear anything above the roaring _thump, thump, thump_ in his head, and something inside him snaps.

He stands up on shaky legs and then he's yelling back at Harry. Yelling how he doesn't want to do this, he never wanted. But _he'll_ kill him. He'll kill them all. There isn't a choice for him. There never was. Never. Not from the start. This is who he was raised to be. _What_ he was raised to be, and he has to, he _has _to do what he's been told.

He has to...

run

tell Snape

fix the bloody cabinet

don't get killed

don't get mother killed

don't get father killed

don't

kill Dumbledore

kill

Avada—

_bring the colours back._

Harry flinches.

The black spots dance closer. Draco falls back against the cabinet and closes his eyes. He's so tired. He can't seem to fix the cabinet, and he knows that he can't kill Dumbledore.

"You don't understand," he tells Harry. His voice is but a whisper. "I have to. He'll kill me if I don't."

He's already been marked, _poisoned_, in the same hand that holds the scars of an apology. He can't disobey. _You don't understand._

There's a soft shuffle of footsteps towards him and Harry crouches down. Draco opens his eyes and almost winces. He's doesn't like seeing Harry in dull blacks and greys. He doesn't like the weariness in his face either.

"Just...bring the colours back."

_(Lumos)_

Harry purses his lips. And then, slowly, gently, his eyes thaw into a warm (the warmest) green. The apple in the corner takes a similar hue. The stack of books beside it have faded brown covers, a moth-eaten hat is a violent violet, there's a rusted sword that has smidges of silver and drops of sapphire on its hilt...

The headache recedes, and every time he blinks, a few of the spots in his vision clear away.

Harry is all black, red and gold in his uniform and before that dreamy haze, that the burst of colours always brings with them, can dissipate, he leans forwards, weaves a hand around that _messy_ hair, and presses his lips against Harry's.

All the colours explode soundlessly under his eyelids, sending sparks dancing along his veins, that crackle and sing and laugh at him, with him, and for a tiny fraction of a moment, for just a blink, a breath, Harry kisses him back. Soft, slow, like a whisper, a breeze, a secret.

Then all of a sudden, he pulls back with a gasp.

The world snaps back into greyscale.

His headache comes back with twice the strength it had before.

Draco collapses.

_(Nox)_

-:-

He lives inside a world of black and white for a year.

Until standing in a wreak of a battle, with smoke and dust and blood surrounding him, he feels a stab, a _searing_ burn that just about kills him, except that it's not he who dies.

And then, oh, then, slowly, so slowly, it all comes back. The first colour he sees is the red of all the blood around him. Then the blue, and green, and silver, and yellow, and gold, and crimson in the uniforms of all the dead students.

He thinks he might be sick so he stares up at the sky and concentrates on breathing, and holding on to all those colours as tight as he can.

-:-

When it's over, it's all finally over, he finds Harry alone in the courtyard, just soaking up sunlight with his eyes closed, holding his holly and phoenix feather wand tight in one hand.

Draco stops a few paces behind him, marvelling at the flickering dance of the sunlight on the edges of Harry's face. The sky is a greying sort of blue with flecks of pink and gold splattered around in no definite pattern, like tears in the seam of the universe.

When Harry turns, Draco is only mildly surprised to find him smiling, which then turns into a grin, which in turn makes Draco grin for no apparent reason.

And then they're laughing. Loud, careless laughter, that rings in the evening light, and for that single moment, they are transported back to that first time in Madam Malkin's, when they found the delight of colours and swooned in its intoxicating swirl that collided against each other, and collided against their eyes, running deep, deep, deeper until they reached their hearts and dipped into their bloodstream, and chased after their pulses.

And they know, they just _know_ that the colours won't be leaving again.

Not for a long, _long _time.

_-Fin-_


End file.
